


like sunburn

by zinthos



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, Episode Prompto, M/M, World of Ruin, at least i kept the angst modest, character death is implied but whatevs, i had promised myself i would never write canon or go anywhere near my angst territory, yet here I AM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 03:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11327355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinthos/pseuds/zinthos
Summary: "I'm going to make this world a better place. Are you with me?""Uh-huh. Ever at your side."





	like sunburn

**Author's Note:**

> only spoilers to episode prompto are the quotes and the very last scene which by the way fucked me the fuck up. like holy shit if i could marry a scene............... but also why??? bc that quote, considering how canon actually ends??? yeah, fuck you square enix?

i.

 

It comes to him like hot flashes.

Like sunburn. 

 _I’m going to make this world a better place_.

He’s gotten better at swallowing down the urge to claw at his skin, to pick at the words carved there because they _aren’t_ there, they never _have been_. But it’s always felt that way. It still does.

If only Noct can see what the world’s turned into, Prompto muses, hands hanging onto the edge of Hammerhead’s door, lavender-blue eyes on never-ending dark skies.

 _Are you with me_?

“Oh, man,” Prompto bemoans, his brow furrowed, the corners of his thin lips twitching in distress, in anxiety, in a sinking depression. In a restlessness he can’t seem to feed. “I’m _trying_.”

 

ii.

 

The world is in ruins and the roars of daemons feel like earthquakes, the walls shaking, windows rattling.

In Hammerhead, they get close to the gates caging the garage and Takka’s diner in, far enough so the lights won’t reach them, but still close. Close so their beaming eyes can glare at hunters, can stare, never blinking, following every twitch of muscle, roaring with need.

Prompto’s twenty-four now and he’s learnt to ignore them, bent over a desk inside the garage, pulling guns apart and putting them back together. Upgrading them, making them better.

He pauses a lot, though. Runs grease-stained hands through his hair, fidgets and twitches. He has moments when he’s uncomfortable in his skin; when he wants to shed, take a breather, find a way to relax before coming back.

It has nothing to do with the all the ways it used to be Before, when the sun still existed, when Noct was still around and Prompto had it drilled in his head he had to make himself worthy.

This new feeling in the Now is part of that restlessness, part of that itchy feeling when there’s no rash, that _need_ to claw at his skin, pat at a burn that’s not there.

“Some liquor might do the trick, sugar,” Cindy suggests.

Prompto knows it won’t.

 _Are you with me_?

It’s got to do with so much left unsaid, so much empty space, so much _longing_. Prompto knows it has to do with wanting and not getting, with glancing but not searching. 

Prompto _knows_ it has to do with Noct. 

That’s how stories like these go, after all.

 

iii.

 

Prompto’s twenty-six and he’s hunting.

He lies on his stomach over a small hill, an eye shut tight, the other looking through the scope of his rifle, observing the nasties at a good distance.

 _Man, this place is just crawling with nasties_.

His lips twitch.

“Cleanin’ the place up for you, buddy.”

Ignis and Gladio are too. They’ve split up; it’s better this way, they cover more ground. Prompto knows they don’t carry the same words he does, didn’t have that moment with Noct that he did but they don’t have to.

Prompto reaches a hand behind his head and claws at the back of his neck.

 _Are you with me_?

Prompto shoots.

 

iv.

 

And sometimes Prompto cries. 

When the memories become unbearable, so strong and persistent, they remain in the forefront of his mind no matter his efforts to disperse them. They clog up his every thought but they leave his concentration alone and he guesses it’s the least he can ask for.

So he cries in silence, quiet tears trailing down his thin, freckled cheeks as he fixes and cleans guns up for the hunters, hands shaky but not in any way clumsy.

In the dimmed room, he hovers over a handgun but what he really sees are gray-blue eyes darkened with mischief, a crooked grin—

_I’m sorry—_

“Me too.”

 

v.

 

Noctis returns ten years after he disappears.

He’s all scruffy and disoriented but there’s an air to him that hadn’t been there before. It makes Prompto think about that moment they shared, ten years ago, in that room in Zegnautus Keep. The way he’d sounded, the way Prompto’s heart paused for just _one second_ before it sped up with something like pride.

 _Y’know, I never thought I’d say this… But you sounded like a real king for a second_. 

Prompto’s never cared about Noct being a prince or a king. Not because he knows nothing of respect, of course. He likes to believe he knows when he has to, when he should sow his acknowledgement of whom Noct really is. But the thing is that Noct is Noct. He’ll always be just Noct. His best friend, his first friend. His one and only.

But in that room… 

Prompto shakes his head, his thin mouth stretching into a grin as he claps Noctis in the back, laughs at the scruffy beard, at the shaggy hair and observes the look in his eyes. One he can’t name but, somehow, understands.

“It’s really you,” he laughs.

“Yeah?” Noct scoffs. “I didn’t notice.”

Prompto’s skin itches and he swallows the urge to claw at it, the length of his freckled arms, the fleshier part of his thighs, his sides.

 _I’m gonna make this world a better place_.

Prompto’s hand travels from Noct’s back to his shoulder and he gives it a squeeze. Maybe it’s finally time to get to work.

 

vi.

 

The world can go to hell.

 

 

vii.

 

The fire crackles and despite the deep urge to stay awake forever, Ignis and Gladio have gone to bed. Tomorrow, everything changes and part of their lives will be over.

Prompto stays in his seat, tear-trails dry on his cheeks, eyes on the haven’s marked ground. His skin itches under his Crownsguard uniform and he wants to take it all off, tear his entire flesh off with it.

Noct sits across from him and he’s quiet.

It burns, like his words from ten years ago. It all burns more with the reality of how things are supposed to end. Of how empty and pathetic and _stupid_ his promise had been, has always been.

“Hey,” Noct finally starts and Prompto slowly looks up at him. Noct points at his own chin, his lips twitching in a halfhearted smile. “You got dirt under your chin.”

Prompto’s lips wobble and he almost wants to scream at him. But when has he ever screamed at Noct? How can he possibly afford to have that be one of their last moments together.

“It took me ten years to grow this, don’t make fun of me,” he tries.

Noct touches his own beard and Prompto swallows the urge to tell him he looks like King Regis. So much, it’s haunting.

They grow quiet and the fire licks and eats at the wood, the sky continues to be dark, unapologetically so. Around them, daemons scream and roar with hunger and rage.

 _I’m going to make this world a better place_.

“Hey,” Prompto says and his voice cracks but he just can’t. Can’t _what_ , exactly, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t _care_. “R-remember…?”

Noct looks at him, his expression soft, weary, sad, asking for forgiveness and giving it all in the same. Prompto wants to look up at the moon and the stars and yell how wrong this is. He wants to scream at Lady Lunafreya for _lying_ , for asking the impossible of him.

This _isn’t_ how it’s supposed to be.

“We were…” He sucks in air and he ignores the urge to close his eyes in favor of looking into Noct’s. “We were going to make this world a better place.”

Noctis’ expression drops for less than a second but it is enough.

 

viii.

 

The sun rises and Prompto looks up from the rebuilding.

He says, “Mornin’, buddy.”

 

-

 

-

 

-

 

-

 

-

 

ix.

 

There’s a shift on the stiff bed and the silence last for a few seconds after that. Prompto listens to the soft inhale that only Noct tends to do before talking. He doesn’t turn though; still can’t, still feels gross with everything about himself.

“Hey,” Noct says, his voice soft and breathy. “I’m… sorry.”

But this grabs Prompto’s attention.

What does _he_ have to apologize for? What has Noct ever done but be kind and accepting? _Prompto_ ’s the one that’s lied since day one, hiding his barcode and about who he is, never mind the fact that who he is was always a bit of a blurry subject until just recently. _Prompto_ ’s the one carrying enemy blood, born on enemy territory. 

Why’s Noct _apologizing_?

“For what?” Prompto asks, and he looks at Noctis from over his shoulder, the curve of his back, his messy dark hair.

Noct’s looking at his lap, bent forward and if Prompto didn’t know him any better, he would miss the stiff shoulders coming with self-depreciation. He supposes that’s something they’ve always secretly had in common.

“For falling right into his trap,” Noct finally says, never having to explain who _he_ is. “And for hurting you like that.”

Prompto swallows and pushes down the memory of Noct lifting his arsenal at him, shoving him off the moving train. _Fuck_ that was the worst; in the long run… fuck his heritage and all the things Ardyn said and did, but Noct looking at him like that, never mind who he thought he was seeing, but it was _him, Prompto_ , that received the look. 

“I know right?” he asks, his voice taking a funny tone, one that’s trying to mask the pain he doesn’t want Noct to know is there because in the end neither of them are at fault. He swallows, urging his playful side, his jokes to come out, to protect them both, to fix the cracks and mend the tears. “How could you _possibly_ do such a horrible thing—after _everything_ we’ve been through?”

It’s quiet for a second.

Just a second.

And he drops the act.

“Nah,” he scoffs, shaking his head, still looking at the wall. “It’s okay. You’re not the only one who fell for it.”

Because he seriously believed Noct hated him.

After _everything_ they’d _been through_.

Being sixteen and stupid, seventeen and awkward, eighteen and curious, nineteen and fine, twenty and on the road. Noctis and Prompto.

The quiet falls around them again and it’s less awkward than when they started. Still wounded, though. _Gods_ , Prompto wishes it wasn’t like this. He wishes they’d be okay. That he can roll over and fling an arm around Noct’s shoulder, pull him close so they’re pressed side by side, grin at each other and feel like they can take the world even if it’s quite obvious they can’t.

“Once,” Noct begins, “this is all over, I say we break down the borders—come together as one nation.”

Prompto stays quiet but he turns to look at him fully, unabashedly so that Noct feels the weight of his stare enough to look back at him. He grows flustered, crosses his arms in front of his chest and shifts on the bed.

“I mean, what does it matter where you’re from, anyway?”

Prompto stands from the bed, digs his knees onto the mattress and holds onto the top bunk as he stares at his best friend. “Y’know, I never thought I’d say this… But you sounded like a real king for a second.”

“Better late than never…”

Prompto grins at him, the grin genuine at the sight of Noct’s soft, small smile.

And then:

“I’m gonna make this world a better place. You with me?”

Noct turns to look at him, his eyes gray and blue and bright, like a sky full of stars. Prompto looks at him, his chest heavy and full so much so he feels he’ll burst.

He looks down for a second and nods, smiling.

“Uh-huh,” his eyes locked with his, “ever at your side.”


End file.
